


Children of the Sun

by Sineala



Series: Children of the Sun [1]
Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Era, Community: ninth_eagle, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that somewhere else in the world is the person who is the other half of their soul, destined for them by the gods, a person whose very emotions they can feel. Lonely and in disgrace, Marcus soldiers across the empire, certain that his own soulmate is out there, and he strives to find him even as duty and misfortune would keep them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is a soulbonding AU, written for Round 3 of the second Fanmedia Challenge at Ninth Eagle on LJ. Beta by Carmarthen, cheerleading by Lishan, Isis, and Lysimache.
> 
> Additional warnings: There are some ablist attitudes, as one might expect from Marcus in canon.

Marcus was running drills with the rest of the recruits when it happened. The Second Legion was as demanding on its soldiers as any other legion, and of course Marcus knew it had to be, but sometimes when the hot Egyptian sun beat down mercilessly upon him, he wished he had enlisted in Gallia instead. Or Germania. But Aquila's son could not afford to be so choosy; no one had asked him where he would like to be. They had not let him join as an officer, and he was lucky to be in the army at all.

They were training in pairs in full armor, running up hills and leaping over ditches. It was in the middle of one such leap, when Marcus was full in the air, that his vision went white. He fumbled the landing and came down hard on his knees, crashing and rolling to his side; dimly he was aware of the pain, but then all he could feel was light, exploding behind his eyes, his mind suddenly cracking open in colors and feelings and things he could not even name.

Marcus felt hands on his shoulders, trying to push him to his back.

"Marcus? Marcus?" Gaius Didicus, his running partner, was saying. "What's wrong?"

"I--" _I don't know_ , he tried to say, but he could not summon up any words. All at once he was filled with the greatest happiness, rushing all through him, so vast he could hardly breathe.

Didicus' fingers were at Marcus' throat, working at the ties, then pulling his helmet off. "Don't-- oh, Name of Light, Marcus, please--"

The sky above him was too bright, too much, too much of everything, and Marcus shut his eyes against it. If only he could explain-- if only there were words--

"Is it your head?" Didicus was asking, urgently, from very far away. "How are you? Marcus, come on, say something! How do you feel?"

The strange new happiness swelled, and Marcus struggled against it enough to open his eyes, to open his mouth.

"I feel wonderful," Marcus said, smiling, and then he passed out.

* * *

Waking up was a much less pleasant experience; when Marcus opened his eyes, he could see first the heavy canvas of the surgeon's tent, and then the sour-faced glare of Vindex the surgeon, looming over him. The overwhelming joy was still in him, somewhere in the back of his mind, but it seemed, in a strange way, faraway; it felt like he could poke at it, as a man might worry at a sore tooth.

"Sir," Marcus rasped. "I was-- I--"

"Aquila was running with me." Marcus turned his head with great difficulty to see that Didicus was on the other side of him, still stricken with concern. "But then he clutched at his head as if it was hurting him and he fell, but he said it didn't--"

"It doesn't hurt," Marcus repeated. How could anyone think this could hurt? It was wonderful, life and light and everything and he hoped that meant they would not take it away somehow. He could not bear the thought of that, oh, he could not. "It's-- it's the best thing I've ever felt. It seems... faraway," he added, uncertainly.

Vindex glared suspiciously at him, and then Didicus, and then back at him. "Congratulations, Aquila," he said, finally. "The gods have breathed life between you and another."

"It's his _soulbond_?" Didicus stared at them in disbelief. "You mean you hadn't had yours yet, Marcus? And how can anything be that strong? Mine was nothing like that, when it happened. I stayed conscious."

But Marcus wasn't listening. His soulmate. His soulbond. He had begun to think it would never come upon him, for he was twenty now, years older than when most people first felt theirs. Perhaps, he had thought, it was another thing the gods would withhold from him, another punishment for what his father had done. But they had given him a soulbond, at last! He couldn't stop smiling.

It must mean his soulmate was younger than he was and that the gods had been waiting not for Marcus but for his soulmate. Fourteen, fifteen, maybe? Well, that was not a problem; no doubt his soulmate would be older by the time Marcus could arrive... somewhere. Marcus frowned. It felt... sort of northerly. This did not much help, of course, because everything was north of Egypt, but at least it wasn't south. That happiness, though, that was his soulmate. His.

He tried to send back his good feelings, everything he was feeling, but perhaps they were too far apart for it to travel down the bond. His soulmate had to know, though. Surely no one could miss feeling this. _Mine_ , he thought, contentedly. _Yours._

The surgeon shrugged. "It's stronger for some people than others. I can't say I've seen ones this strong very often, though. But it's not unheard of."

Didicus nodded in understanding and then turned a congratulatory grin toward Marcus. "His poor soulmate's friends are probably having the same conversation, except about her, eh?"

"Him," said Marcus without thinking, and Didicus blinked.

"Oh." Didicus was rendered momentarily speechless. "You're, uh-- you're sure about that?"

"I'm not sure about anything," Marcus said, and that was definitely the truth. "But it sounded wrong when you said it."

Didicus tried smiling again. "So. Congratulations."

"Thank you." It was rare for men to have men as soulmates, or women to have women, Marcus knew, but that didn't mean it didn't happen, and certainly there were men such as Magnus Alexander to look up to in that regard. The Greeks had prized it most of all, of course; such men were children of the sun. And Marcus had long favored Apollo as well as Mithras, the unconquered sun. Yes, it was a good sign, the best. Perhaps his soulmate might even become a soldier in a few years and they could serve together.

Vindex scowled at Didicus. "Time for you to go back to your drills," he said, and when Didicus had left, he turned to Marcus. "And time for you to get to the quartermaster."

"What? Why?" Marcus pushed himself upright and stared.

"The herbs." When Marcus looked blankly at him, he continued. "Didn't you have parents? Or friends?"

"They died when I was young," Marcus mumbled, shamefully grateful that Vindex had not remembered who his father was; he felt a shading of concern. His soulmate was worrying about him. "And I never had many friends, no."

Vindex glared, and he began explaining it to him as though he were a child. "A long time ago, when the gods made men, they made them joined with two bodies in one, but with their faces turned away from each other--"

Marcus coughed. "I have read Plato, thank you, sir. I only meant, what herbs?"

"Well, we cannot have you going around distracted by your soulmate all the time, not when you cannot even hope to find him for years -- and I would think yours is far away, yes?"

"Yes," Marcus agreed. He could tell that much.

"And it will be years before you are an officer, too. So there are herbs one can take to dull the bond, a little, so that it does not harm your performance to feel another man's feelings all the time, so you do not risk your life and the lives of your fellow soldiers with a lapse in concentration."

Dull this? Vindex wanted him to give this up? "Sir, how can you expect me to--?"

"We all do it," Vindex said, much more gently than before. "You are a soldier, and while you are a soldier Rome has more claim on you than your soulmate does. This is the way it must be."

"I understand, sir." He saluted, unsteadily, and walked out toward the quartermaster's tent, head down so no one could see his face.

_I'm sorry_ , he thought, as hard as he could, to the man who was so, so far away, who could not hear him. _But I will be a good soldier, and someday I will leave Egypt, and I will find you, and I can explain it then._

* * *

Marcus took the herbs, all right. He took them and he dumped them in the latrine, every day. Perhaps a man with his past should have been more careful, should have abided by the regulations. But every day he looked at the little handful of dried plants -- silphium, he thought, for even a fool knew that one from the shape of its seeds, and a few other things besides -- and he could not make himself swallow them. How could the bond hurt anyone? How could it hurt him? How could he cut off his soulmate, without warning? Suppose he had never heard of the herbs either, and thought Marcus injured or dead?

Every day he threw them out, for three years running, until the night that Marcus woke from a sound sleep, sat bolt-upright in the darkness of the barracks, and screamed with a pain that was not his for hours, knowing that somewhere far away people were dying and his soulmate was terrified and in agony and there was nothing he could do. He screamed until he couldn't speak, and they held him down and forced an herbal decoction down his raw throat.

They set a guard to watch him, the first few days, to make sure he took the silphium mixture. Marcus didn't need to be told again. All he could feel down the bond was wretched misery.

* * *

At least they were both alive. Marcus reminded himself of this, and he tried to send reassurances as he could manage, but he did not think the other man -- for surely he was a man now -- felt them. But someday, someday Marcus would find him, he would help him, he would explain everything.

It was one of the ironies of life that soldiers were both the most and least likely to find their soulmates. The empire was huge, and there was no guarantee that you would be lucky like Marcus' parents and realize that your soulmate lived in a neighboring town. Most people could not afford to travel widely, and if their soulmate were in another province, they might never find them. And the rich, well, they often did not marry their soulmates; for them there were other considerations than happiness. A soldier, though, a career soldier -- you might be posted anywhere in the empire, so you might meet your soulmate, and you could take up with a person for love if you liked. But then, of course, you could not marry your soulmate or bring him to live with you until you were an officer, which in some ways, Marcus thought, made you less lucky. Moreover, you had to survive long enough to meet your soulmate, and that was a chancier thing for a soldier than for almost anyone else.

Still, he knew his soulmate was not in Egypt, and so he should not be either, not if he could help it. So he threw himself into the duties the army required, and he was promoted: tent-leader, then optio, and then, then, when he was almost thirty, he knew they were eyeing him for centurion. Good.

* * *

"You've done good work, Aquila," the tribune said.

"Thank you, sir."

He squinted at something written in one of the files. "Your disciplinary records indicate an incident with the silphium--"

"Won't happen again, sir," Marcus promised, fervently.

"See that it doesn't. As I said, you've done well, Aquila, considering--" he paused, significantly-- "your family, and I'd very much like to offer you a promotion to centurion--"

"Oh, thank you!"

The tribune held up his hand. "But there's nothing in the legion. If you're willing to take a lateral transfer to the auxiliaries, I can arrange that."

"Sir, if it's a promotion of any sort, I'd be happy to take it." Of course he would.

The tribune smiled. "I thought you might say that. So, where do you want to be posted?"

The question didn't make sense at first. "What?" The man couldn't really be asking him that. Surely he didn't get to choose.

"There's enough room in the auxiliaries to send you wherever you like, Aquila. Name a province."

This was it. _Where are you?_ he thought, desperately, at his soulmate, but there was only a sad resignation, blunted even more by the silphium. That was all he had gotten from the bond, for the most part, for the past few years. He was on his own. He had to think. He couldn't ask for Italia. Oh, his soulmate could be in Italia, but whatever the tribune said, they didn't waste prime Italian postings on men like him. Further north, then. Gallia? Or maybe west, in Hispania? East, to Asia Minor? No, neither of those were right. It was north. He was sure of that. Gallia had possibilities, he thought. It sounded like it could be right. And at least it wasn't entirely barbarian wilderness; there were proper towns there, and some of the Gauls were very like Romans. He'd have a chance of finding his soulmate there. Yes, yes, Gallia must be it. He had to hope he was right.

Marcus opened his mouth. "Britannia."

He and the tribune stared at each other, and Marcus couldn't say which of them was more surprised.

"Are you quite certain?" the tribune asked, faintly.

Marcus nodded. "Britannia, sir. Very certain."

"Very well. I'll have the paperwork drawn up."

_I hope you know what you're doing_ , he thought, but there was no reply.

* * *

Despite what he had said to the tribune, he was uncertain all the way to Britannia. What if he had not been right? He hardly felt anything from his soulmate these days, only the same sadness and resentment. Suppose Marcus had imagined it all? The crossing from Gesoriacum to Rutupiae was rough, all wind and choppy seas, and his first view of Britannia, when he could finally see it, was of an alien, forbidding land.

But something changed when he stepped ashore. The country around him was so strange, so different, but at the same time it felt familiar, a place he should have known, a place he had always known. It felt _right_ in a way nothing had since that long-ago day in Egypt, and he knew his soulmate was here, on this island. Alive.

Somewhere.

* * *

Isca Dumnoniorum was wrong, all wrong, for so many reasons. Marcus could not shake the sense, from the day he arrived, that he was in the wrong place, too far west. The idea of taking leave to ride east or north -- and what if his soulmate was past the wall? -- seemed well enough, but in practice he could not leave the fort. The men, distrustful, already whispered about him when they thought he could not hear. Oh, they knew all about his father.

He took to pacing the high walls of the fort during the long watches of the night. At least, at least, he did not think his soulmate was one of the restive Dumnonii, lurking in the forest. He could not bear the thought of having to face him in battle, and, oh, the fear of that chilled him worse than anything. What if his soulmate were British? He had never thought of that before, not once.

"It'll be all right, sir," Lutorius said, awkwardly, on one of these long nights. Marcus did not think the man liked him, but at least he did not hate him. Marcus had grown accustomed to not having friends. 

And they whispered about him more when he went to the garrison-town, when he met Cradoc, who did not care about his past. Perhaps many people had a life like this, where they could laugh and jest with their fellows and not worry that another thought ill of them.

It never occurred to him until the spear was in his hand, aimed at Cradoc's heart, that friendship might complicate things as much as a soulbond.

* * *

Once he was awake enough again to learn that he was in Calleva, there was a strange sort of relief, mixed with the grief and the pain. He could not spare any energy to think about what that meant.

Marcus' own uncle held out a cup, and Marcus struggled to lift his head. "Marcus, the surgeon says you ought to drink this, for your strength."

Marcus smelled a familiar aromatic scent mingling with the others and shuddered. "No," he said, groaning. "I have had enough silphium in the army. Let me live without it." He flailed, with his mind rather than with his hands, and he thought he could feel a sort of sorrow. Perhaps that was his soulmate, there.

His uncle raised an eyebrow. "They told me you had not met your soulmate yet, and you want him to feel this? Everything you feel? You will make him pass out from the pain too, and he will not even know what is wrong." The way he said it was kind enough, and he was right, of course.

Marcus sighed and drained the cup. Perhaps it was better, this way, that his soulmate should not feel him. Perhaps if they met, his soulmate would not want him. His name was disgraced, he was crippled, he likely could never soldier again. Anyone would expect more.

"Good, good," his uncle said, patting his shoulder. "I will have Stephanos sent in to care for you; I can spare him for a little while."

"Thank you," Marcus said, or tried to say, but his tongue was thick in his mouth, and he did not understand why tears were beginning to well up, hot behind his eyes.

As sleep overtook him, he thought he felt some warmth, some comfort from afar, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he did not know whether he was only half-dreaming it because it was what he would have wanted.

* * *

Healing came slowly to Marcus as the days shortened heading into winter. He took the silphium along with everything else the surgeon gave him, but he thought still, sometimes, when all was very quiet, he could feel the sense of his soulmate drawing closer, coming south. _I'm here_ , he thought, over and over, _in Calleva_ , even though he knew there was no way the other man could know the words as he thought them.

Still, he was grateful for that tiny sense, that smallest scrap of certainty, because he needed everything the day Lutorius came with his armilla and his discharge. After that, the days all blurred together for a long while.

It seemed very sudden when Marcus realized it was the first day of Saturnalia and he had been here nearly two months. It was a bright day, warm for the season, and he liked that; it reminded him of Etruria more than anything. Saturnalia had always been his favorite holiday when he was a child; he had loved getting and giving little presents. Perhaps he could still appreciate it now that he was grown.

"There are games today, Marcus," his uncle said, over breakfast. "I thought we might attend."

It was in his mind to say no, but something in his heart disagreed. Even if he could still hardly walk with a staff and a slave to support him, perhaps it would do him some good to get out, to breathe the fresh air.

"Certainly," Marcus said, and he smiled.

As Marcipor helped him from the couch to his room, Marcus realized he had not taken the day's silphium, last night. Well, it was no matter -- it was Saturnalia, after all, and he was set to have a fine day. Perhaps his soulmate could enjoy feeling his happiness about the festival. He picked up his money-purse, heavy with denarii and even a few precious aurei. If it was not too late, he could still buy holiday gifts for his uncle and the slaves, after the games.

Marcus reached down the bond, a habit even though he hardly felt anything, and was surprised to taste a sort of grim determination, heavy and dark, almost despairing, that made him sway as he stood. He did not think he had felt such a thing from his soulmate before, but perhaps the silphium had blunted it.

_It will be well._ Marcus tried to project reassurance. _It is Saturnalia. What could be bad about Saturnalia?_

As soon as he could walk, as soon as he could ride, Marcus would go find him. He would.

* * *

Marcus, his uncle, and the slaves all settled into their seats at the arena late in the morning; it was coming up on the sixth hour, if Marcus was any judge. And they were almost done with the fights, too. The arena-master had just cried out for a death-fight, and surely that was the last one; Marcus had been to enough games to know that they saved those for the end, if they had them at all. More time to go to the markets afterward, then.

The first gladiator walked out, huge and helmeted, bare to the waist, raising his sword to the sky. From the way the crowd roared, he was certainly the favorite; Marcus did not think this was like to be a fair fight.

There was some sort of scuffle by the gate; though Marcus craned his neck, he could not quite see. Eventually a smaller man, likewise clad only in braccae, was shoved forward. He took a tentative step into the light, lifting his sword and buckler high, and Marcus saw him. He was not much to look at, by most measures: a small, pale man, clearly British, all bones and angles, with ink wrapped about one arm and a determined set to his stance. He was likely some unfortunate tribesman, captured and now set to die. The man was turned away from him; Marcus could not quite make out his face.

The man hefted his sword, not as high as the first gladiator had done, and turned to face the crowd, holding himself proudly and defiantly. He must have known this was to be his death. Then he turned, and Marcus could see the man's face. Their eyes met--

He was aware of nothing else but the man on the sands, looking up at him with wide, surprised gray eyes. They could have been the only two people in the world. He had been waiting, searching all of his life for this, and the feelings that had been so distant now slid into his mind as if they were his very own. He could feel the hot sand under his feet, the weight of the sword in his hand--

On the sands, the man staggered, clutching at his leg, at a wound that was Marcus' own.

_No_.

Marcus watched, horrified, as sword and shield both slid from the man's grasp. The huge gladiator lunged forward and swung out, with the flat of the blade, taking the other man to the sands. Marcus felt the blow against his chest as if he himself had been hit, knocking all the air out of his lungs, and he gasped.

"Marcus?" his uncle asked, next to him and yet not as close as the man down below. "Marcus, what's the matter?"

He couldn't speak. His mouth tasted of sand and blood, gritty and metallic.

The man struggled to his feet. This time the gladiator hit him with his shield edge. Again. Blood spattered across the sands.

The third time, Marcus' soulmate did not rise.

"No!" Marcus yelled, as the gladiator stood over him, sword-point at his throat, and the crowd called for death.

He pushed himself upright, grabbing at his staff even as his leg burned white-hot with pain. He couldn't remember it hurting this much in months, not since the first injury; it was as though he'd been wounded again. His vision went gray as he clattered down the last remaining steps to the edge of the stands, falling, sprawling, to lean down overlooking the arena. This could not happen. The gods could not be this cruel. He could not find his soulmate only to watch him die in front of him.

"No!" he screamed again. There were tears on his face, he knew. "Spare him! You can't kill him! You can't, damn you!"

The gladiator heard him, somehow, over the roar of the crowd. Likely he saw the way everyone else was edging away from Marcus. He did not lift his mask, and the molded stare was disconcerting.

"Why can't I?" the gladiator called back, though his sword didn't waver. "It is the will of the crowd, as you see."

"You can't," Marcus repeated, "if you've any scrap of mercy in you, please! Please! He's-- I've just found my soulmate. It's him."

The sword landed in the dirt.

* * *

Everything was rather hazy after that.

He was dimly aware of the slaves helping him down from the stands -- how, he could not say, because he could scarcely stand -- when all his mind was with his soulmate, a man whose name he still did not know, being herded back through the gates and out to the cells. He felt the bond as a bright shining line between them, the thread of the Fates, and he could have walked it with his eyes closed.

"I have to buy him," Marcus heard himself saying, over and over, until the words didn't make any sense, dissolving into meaningless sound. "Uncle, I have to buy him, I have to free him, I have to--"

"Of course you do, my boy," his uncle said, coming up beside him, on the other side of Stephanos.

"No," he said, urgently. "Right now, please. Please."

"I know," his uncle said, and then Marcus stepped wrongly and everything went gray-green again.

* * *

They found a chair for him, eventually, just outside the arena, as the crowd streamed out of it. People were staring. Marcus could not bring himself to care. They had seen what had happened. It was, he thought, incredibly unlikely, rather like one of those comedies, the kind where the braggart-soldier finds that his soulmate is an elegant Greek courtesan. He would probably have stared, too, if it had been someone else. Now he only wanted his soulmate.

"--eleven hundred," someone said. The arena-master.

"A thousand," countered his uncle.

Marcus reached blindly for his money-pouch and thrust it out. "Give him anything he wants, Uncle."

"Hush, Marcus. Let me make a deal for you."

Marcus looked up to see the arena-master's eyes gleam with avarice.

"You want to bargain for love?" his uncle tried.

The arena-master was unmoved. "I want to bargain for my property, sir."

"Uncle, _please_ ," Marcus said again, and his uncle sighed and handed over the entire pouch.

The arena-master looked down and grinned a toothless grin in Marcus' direction. "He's yours now, boy. Better free him or sell him." The law, of course, did not permit one soulmate to own another, not that Marcus would have ever, ever wanted to.

"I want to free him. And I want to see him now." Even through the pain, he could not stop the excitement. His soulmate, his soulmate at last! He only hoped the man wanted him. Perhaps he thought poorly of him. Perhaps he hated Romans. Perhaps-- perhaps--

His uncle directed Stephanos to go see if the magistrate was still here. And then--

The man who stepped forward was barefoot and without a tunic, wearing only ragged braccae. Drying blood streaked down his face and made mats in his pale hair, and there were unpleasant bruises along his ribs. And he was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful person Marcus had seen in his entire life. The man was standing a bit away from the group, his eyes wide and wary, bracing like he expected to need to take flight. There was almost nothing to show happiness on his face, but his mind, Marcus knew, was full of joy. 

"I bought you," Marcus said, dazed. "I bought you, my name's Marcus, and I'm freeing you, right now--"

Then the magistrate arrived. Kaeso's face was a little pinched, but when Marcus' uncle waved him over, he smiled politely enough, almost as nicely as if Marcus' soulmate standing here had been a good freeborn Roman. He beckoned one of his lictors forward, asking if they were ready.

"I think so," his uncle said, and his smile was unfeigned. "But I don't think Marcus can stand enough to hold him. A bit of the old way, then. You-- what's your name?"

"I am called Esca," said Marcus' soulmate, in good, accented Latin. _Esca_. Marcus smiled again.

His uncle took charge in a way that suggested that he too had once been an excellent soldier. "Esca, if you can, kneel there, in front of Marcus. Marcus, put your hand on his head. You know what to say?"

Marcus nodded, and Esca knelt at his feet.

He reached out--

\--and it was like holding his hand to fire. He was dying, he was living, he was more alive than he had ever been. He could feel all of it, everything Esca felt, and Mithras, Esca was afraid, but he loved him, his soulmate, _his_ \--

"I want this man to be free," Marcus said, the ritual words, and he heard Kaeso, somewhere faraway, echoing them, confirming it, as the lictor touched him quickly with the rod. "You're free," he repeated, though that was not part of the ceremony. "You're free, you're free--"

Esca looked up at him, tilting his head back. His eyes were wide and Marcus could feel everything still, disbelief and joy--

"Marcus," said his uncle in an undertone. "You have to let him go now. Send him forth. From your hands. Ritually. Just for a bit."

With difficulty, Marcus pulled his hand away from Esca's head; the bond slackened, but only a little. It was not gone. It would never be gone again. It could be like this, always, if they wanted it.

Smiling, Esca rose to his feet. "Thank you," Esca was saying, his light voice full of hope and wonder and, oh, Marcus already loved hearing it. "I cannot thank you enough for this."

Esca held out his hand and pulled Marcus upright; Marcus staggered, but stood with him, and Esca seemed not to mind him leaning on him, an arm around his shoulders.

"I found you," Marcus said, and he was sure he sounded just as amazed as Esca. "I thought I would never find you."

Esca smiled up at him. "I'm here."

Then Marcus' leg shifted under him and he felt the pain once again, doubled on itself, together with the stabbing pain in his chest, Esca's chest, ribs cracked or broken, and he could not stand any longer--

"Marcus?" Esca said, and everything went gray again as the ground came up to meet him.

* * *

Without opening his eyes, he knew he was in his room at his uncle's villa. The light against his face, the birds outside -- everything was familiar, or at least, almost everything. The fingers interlaced with his, though, that was a new thing.

He opened his eyes. It was Esca, staring down at him with exhaustion and relief across his face; across the bond came a surge of tenderness and a sort of protectiveness, and Marcus smiled. He would not have said he wanted to be taken care of, not if it had been from anyone else, but it was different when it was his soulmate. He felt... safe. Loved. He did not think he had felt quite like this before, not ever.

"You're still here," Marcus said. His throat rasped; it felt as though he hadn't drunk anything in months. "I feared I had dreamed it all, or that you would leave now that I had given you your freedom."

"Oh, Marcus." Esca's hand tightened on his. "What has the world done to you, that you think your very soulmate would abandon you?"

"I am not," Marcus began hoarsely, "the sort of man anyone would hope for. I am of a dishonored family, the son of a man who failed Rome. I used to be a soldier, but I was lamed in battle, and my wounded leg repulses even myself. You see how it is even now. I would understand if you did not want me." He gestured, with his free hand, down the length of himself, even as his mind clung to the bond. _Don't leave me. Don't leave me._

Esca had to shut his eyes for a few breaths. "I am the only survivor of a dead clan," he said, finally. "There are those who would say I am a coward for not dying with them, for letting the slavers take me alive."

It was then that Marcus knew what had happened to wake him in the night seven years ago. "I am sorry for that," he said, knowing that the words were inadequate. "I grieved with you, then."

Esca tilted his head. "I thought I felt that. And then nothing, almost nothing, for so long."

"They ordered me to take certain medicines after that, in the army. The heart-plant, silphium, and some others. It lessens the bond, so the soldiers do not all wake screaming as I did, when some ill befalls their soulmate -- I didn't want to do it, you have to believe me--"

"Shh." Esca put a finger to Marcus' lips. "I know. I know. And do you think I did not know about your leg, at the very moment when it happened? Even though the bond was dulled, as you say, I couldn't walk for days. And I am still here."

"Knowing is not the same thing as seeing," Marcus protested.

Esca snorted. "Marcus, I have been at your bedside for three days. Your uncle brought a surgeon to open the wound again; he said it had not been cleaned properly the first time and there were still... splinters of a chariot, I think he said."

"And how does that prove anything?"

His soulmate grinned, and the smile was suddenly bright with promise. "My point is that I have seen, shall we say, rather a lot of you in the last few days. I assure you I feel a great many things, none of which are revulsion or disgust."

Marcus realized what Esca meant, suddenly, and he felt his face grow hot. "You-- I--"

"I think now you see," Esca said, and there was a warm, delicious shiver all down Marcus' spine as Esca stroked the inside of his wrist with a fingertip. How did he know what to say, what to do? Marcus wondered, but then he realized that of course Esca knew. His other half, a gift from the gods. Of course. Of course.

Marcus found he was smiling. "You can't tell me you always imagined your soulmate was a Roman, though."

Esca shrugged. "And I am sure you did not think I would be British. I will not lie and say I was not nervous. When I was young I feared you would be Roman, but when I was alone, enslaved for so long, I realized that you were the only hope I had. I decided that it would not matter who you were, that it was not my place to question the gods. And I know you do not have my people's blood on your hands. It is enough for me. The gods would not have given you to me if you were not the right one." He said this quietly, but with such confidence that Marcus knew Esca believed it with all of his heart.

He leaned down, perhaps to try to kiss Marcus, another gesture of reassurance, and then stopped and winced. A sweet anticipatory excitement and a stabbing pain both came to Marcus at the same time.

"You broke a rib."

"Cracked," corrected Esca. "Three or four," he added, and he winced again. "The surgeon said something about my shield-arm as well, but I confess I wasn't paying attention."

Marcus kept smiling. "I think we'll be the first soulmates in all of time who won't spend the first month together only in bed. Or maybe we will, but not in the way they're usually talking about."

Esca laughed, albeit gingerly. "Not because I don't want to, mind you."

"Mmm." Marcus reached for Esca's hand, because that, at least, he could do. "I'm sure we'll get around to it soon."

Esca squeezed his fingers again. "I like you already," he whispered, and down the bond was all love and the brightest joy, brilliant with light and warmth, at last, at last.

**Author's Note:**

> The title has been taken from [Aristophanes' speech](http://anonym.to/?http://www.anselm.edu/homepage/dbanach/sym.htm) in Plato's _Symposium_ (or, if you like, the song [The Origin of Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lK0arYCCXRU) from _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_ ). I have been inspired in great part, worldbuilding-wise, by many aspects of Cesare and helens78's XMFC D/s soulbonding AU [Bound and Determined](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bound_and_determined), minus the D/s and the mutants. Basically, I read their stories and wondered what it would have been like if Aristophanes hadn't been joking. 
> 
> I feel compelled to mention that this story is an AU in another way from reality than the obvious one: in this universe, the classical world did a much better job cultivating [silphium](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silphium) (also known as laser or laserpicium), such that it had not died out by the time this story is set. (I know, I write a soulbonding story and you're going to worry about my botany. Aren't you.) I went with silphium because (a) the heart-shaped seed thing is pretty cool and (b) seeing as it's been extinct for two thousand years, I am happy saying that you can use it to dampen your soulbond, because who's to say it didn't, right? I mean, it was already maybe an abortifacient. Plus it would just sound silly if I said "asafetida" instead. (Although, seeing as how soulbonds don't exist either, I suppose I can safely claim anything I like for this purpose.)
> 
> According to Vegetius, it's important for army recruits to practice jumping over ditches. The more you know.
> 
> The details of the manumission ceremony have been drawn from the article [The Cultural Significance of Roman Manumission](http://anonym.to/?http://userwww.sfsu.edu/~epf/journal_archive/volume_V,_1996/palmer_b.pdf). I cannot find any other references to the ceremony once having consisted of the master ritually holding the head of the slave who is to be freed, but, come on, can you blame me for mentioning it? (As far as I can tell, the slave does not have to kneel, but Marcus couldn't really stand up to reach him.) [Lacus Curtius](http://anonym.to/?http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/secondary/SMIGRA*/Manumissio.html) has a good overview of the standard forms of manumission.
> 
> Vindex is everyone's favorite Roman name; go on, say it with your best classical Latin pronunciation! I am actually unsure of the name's ethnic origin. There's a Gaulish senator [C. Julius Vindex](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vindex). In Britain the name is attested in epigraphy as the father of a Brigantes man serving in the Antonine-era army in the north. In either case these people could be Romanized enough to take a Latin name. It's also meaningful in both languages; in reconstructed Gallo-Brythonic it's fairly similar to a root meaning "white" (though I don't know enough about the relevant sound changes to say if it actually is) and in Latin it means "avenger," which, okay, is weird, but it is not the weirdest Roman name ever. Ahem. This has been your etymology digression.
> 
> There. I hope that was fun.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Children of the Sun: the Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032034) by [TheGroupofOne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGroupofOne/pseuds/TheGroupofOne)




End file.
